


In the deep places of the world

by Tanaqui



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Sex, TMI about octopus lifecycles, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Watcher in the Water who seized Frodo was surely not the only one of his kind. Written for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/cliche_bingo/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/cliche_bingo/"><strong>cliche_bingo</strong></a> prompt "Tentacles" at <a href="http://elena-tiriel.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://elena-tiriel.livejournal.com/"><strong>elena_tiriel</strong></a>'s suggestion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the deep places of the world

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://scribblesinink.livejournal.com/profile)[**scribblesinink**](http://scribblesinink.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

It is always dark, here in the Great Lake. Yet with sightless guile, he hunts his prey, slithering along the ooze-encrusted lake bottom between the waving tendrils of black weed. He has no need for eyes. (Though, not knowing their purpose, he knows well enough how sweet they taste when he sucks them from the hard shells of the fresh meat that is to be had from time to time when he lurks near the water's edge.) He can feel each grain of silt as he slithers over it, each writhing frond that brushes across him. He can taste every morsel that is too slow to dart away from his plundering limbs as they probe each crevice and crack.

In places, the water flows sluggishly past him; in others, it hurries and scurries, as streams coming from or flowing to he knows not where—nor cares—mingle and separate. The Great Lake is all his world. Far above, three sharp peaks raise their heads to the bright sun; at their roots, his concern is only for what he can scavenge in the darkness to satisfy his hunger. If the world outside intrudes, it is in the splashings of those creatures which from time to time disturb the lake's still surface, ruffled by no breeze; or in the sharp resonance of quick blows in the caves far above, pattering raggedly for a while and then falling silent, that confuse the currents.

But all has been quiet for many cycles of hunger. Until a curling current brings a new taste: one he has encountered before as a youngling in years past, but in which there was no appeal. Yet now it calls to him, and he must obey. Pulling in a deep gulp of water, he convulses his mantle and jets across the depths towards that alluring taste.

Even as he nears the prize, another approaches to contest it. Limbs writhing, he flings himself upon his rival. The waters seethe and boil as they grapple; the other seeks to slither away, turn, bring his beak to bear, but _his_ strength is the greater, his grip tighter. He opens his beak and snaps down, sinking deep into soft flesh and brain. The other's death throes fling him aside, but he has the mastery.

For a moment, he contemplates devouring his attacker: a meal fit for a conqueror indeed. But his ever-present hunger is dulled; another appetite has replaced it. Ignoring the taste of victory on his barbed tongue, he turns towards the object of his desire. She lets him approach, and his limbs reach out to slither across her mantle, savouring her salty sweetness. His tentacles entwine with hers, curling and twisting around her curves. While all the time one limb searches, searches for the taste it aches for, guiding it towards that opening at the heart of her. Finding it, he plunges in, his seed settling into its long-sought home.

Later, he drifts on the currents, spent and weakened by the encounter. He knows his end approaches, when the pulse of his blue blood will cease to beat, and his flesh will fail and shrink. When he will become one with the settling silt. Yet in some secret den, his sons and daughters will soon hatch, and begin their long rise towards the surface of the Great Lake. And though not one in ten thousand will survive, yet still some will carve their own monstrous futures, and make their way into the tales of those they would prey upon....


End file.
